The Pishacha Infiltration

The between session action as a summoned Pishacha enters the manor in search of Warqua Youngblood:

The wolf-like brute misfit stalks up to the fortress on the mountain face. The gate is open and he sees no guards on the walls.

Perhaps the occupants expect the heavy—and clearly magical—rain to deter any attack? That hideous mortal undersold the ease of attacking this place, though I suppose he did mention dead soldiers on multiple floors. Now to guarantee I can eat those soldiers.

He moves to the stables just within the gate. Without a steed, few mortals could outrun him. The confused and terrified cries of the horses as he enters their pens, clawing them down one by one, exhilarates him. The smell of their blood causes his nostrils to burn and his open mouth drips with saliva. Time to go see these bodies he is fighting to eat.

The Pishacha approaches the main building. Through the right door there is a large kitchen, apparently empty. There are stairs going down, but he is eager to see his promised reward on the second floor. He opens the left doors, toward the mountain itself and presumably the building proper. He can see bodies littering the hallway, but these are not the bodies he was promised.

So much flesh going to waste. Still, if there are as many on the floor above, then resistance will surely be minimal. After this slaughter, would a nobleman really have stayed in the building? Time to see the his bodies.

He ascends a curving stair. Down the second story hall are several bodies lying in their own blood. He can smell older bodies as well, perhaps treated with incense. He grins, not minding a little spice.

His toothy grin falls away as his gaze falls upon a dead devil on the floor. A brute like himself. A Mazzakim, stabbed and cut in many places.

How many devils has this hideous mortal sent to kill this nobleman? No matter, I am mightier than a mere Mazzakim, and the lesser devil did much of my work for me. I will have to thank him for the feast he left.

The Pishacha glances into the larger rooms on the floor, noting a space unaccounted for in the rooms opposite a flight of stairs continuing further upward. On closer inspection he can see that the mortar does not actually touch the bricks along one jagged line. Smirking, he leaves it to ascend the stairs.

He comes upon a room with fine furnishings uncommon to a mountain abode such as this. A four post bed veiled in hangings, a desk with a safe beneath it, a telescope, a massive armoire; definitely a nobleman’s room.

But he’s not here. Probably moved to a more secure location after the Mazzakim attack. The concealed door, then.

He descends again, pulling back the wall with the false mortar. Stairs descending into darkness. He goes down, feeling secure in the safety of a dark he can easily see in. Humans such as these would have lights. Down two flights of stairs and he sees another hidden door to the right, but the stairs continue downward.

The Pishacha vanishes, suddenly hidden from even infrared-seeing eyes in the pitch-dark landing. The door opens as if by itself. On the other side is only storage. He remains invisible, descending the next flight of stairs. The hall at the bottom of the stairs doubles back to a dead end.

The Pishacha’s keen eyes immediately pick out a concealed door. He can hear voices beyond it, but not immediately on the other side. They’re arguing about something, stress apparently high after the previous devil attack. With an invisible smirk, he opens the door. It scrapes a little across the stone floor, but he quickly stops it. The hallway beyond is bright with torches, he adjusts his vision accordingly.

A man steps into the hall before him. “Velish? That you?” He looks with confusion on the empty hall until bloody stripes suddenly appear across his chest, the Pishacha’s claws biting deep and shredding lungs and heart. He dies with a short cry of pain and surprise.

The Pishacha can hear others burst into action. The door at the end of the hall slams closed and he can hear men bracing against it. The nobleman must be there.

As he steps toward the door, three heavily armed and armored soldiers round a corner. Heh, illusions. He runs through the charging images to the door. He slams his shoulder against it, but it doesn’t budge.

A voice beyond yells, “Keep them in the hall! On Ko Loa Soa.”

Great, a caster. He rams the door again, desperate to reach the wizard before he can finish his spell. He knows the power of magic, but knows nothing of what this mage might be doing.

Again the door does not budge. No! He digs his claws into the wood, pulling against it, but not budging it.

A dark storm begins to grow in the hall beside the Pishacha, four feet away. His magic resistance protects him from most of it, but the energy causes his skin to crawl and his muscles to tense. The handle rattles as one of those beyond grabs it. Undeterred, he pulls again, bellowing.

To no effect. The storm continues to grow, burning his skin as it envelopes him. Beyond the door, the mage shouts again, “On Re Soa!” and the hallway goes pitch dark. The torches only feet away are completely smothered in a magical darkness. Even his infrared vision is blinded by it.

He pulls again, desperate to escape the storm, though glad it is growing so slowly. This time the door buckles a little, cracking with the opposing forces of him and the man on the other side.

Again he hears the mage, “On Ko Soa,” as the storm rages, now stripping skin from his left side and burning with an infernal pain.

On the other side, the door handle is released. He pulls excitedly, but his claws slip from the damaged wood and the door remains, keeping him out here with the storm as it begins to truly pain him, sapping his life away.

The Pishacha thrashes at the door, pulling it off its hinges and throwing it behind him in a shower of splinters. Something unseen leaps into the dark, grabbing him. Neither of them can see, but the Pishacha is stronger, quickly pinning the powerful human and biting into his neck with wicked jaws.

An axe falls onto the Pishacha’s back in the dark, cutting him only a little. Another prick as a small dart pierces his side.

Then it hits him, a powerful surge of magic bursts across him, causing his body to shudder and collapse atop his dead foe, unconscious, only to awake again in the infernal plane. He had failed.

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